Stars, hide your fires!
by Is0lde
Summary: What happens when Crowley's beloved car gets totally trashed, and he can't return it to original form? Are there demon forces involved, and if so, what can Aziraphale do to help? After all - this isn't angel territory...
1. Bentley state of mind

**Chapter one: Bentley state of mind**  
  
Once upon a time, there was a town called London.  
London had a lot of advantages. For example, the national dish named Fish 'n Chips – very nutritious and healthy food. Also, there were a lot of fancy hotels, like, for instance, the Ritz. In fact, that specific hotel often attracted the most interesting clientele of customers, a fact that only added to its general appeal.  
And then there was the parking lot.  
  
This specific parking lot was shaped like a square. This was nothing out of the ordinary, of course, but still. The spaces in which you were supposed to park your eventual car were rectangular to their form, and looked a bit too small. You could easily imagine that the one who had drawn the lines had had difficulty following written, specified measures upon looking at them. Maybe it'd been an illiterate person. Or maybe not.  
This all, of course, is beside the point.  
  
"Bloody hell!"  
A voice clad in icy surprise pierced through the delicacy of the early morning air like a poisonous dart. It sounded hollow, like an echo spreading through an empty cave.  
The voice belonged to what appeared to be a young man in his early twenties. Dark-haired, slender, and he had a sort of strange grace about him. Appealing, and yet strangely repulsive. It just came off like a pose he'd tried out in front of his bathroom mirror, trying to get it right. He'd been successful, but still, it just seemed fake and composed.  
His eyes were covered by sunglasses the shade of midnight mist, but as he lowered them to gaze upon the Unspeakable, they proved to be yellowish in a reptile sort of way.  
"Bloody, freakin' hell."  
The man stood absolutely still. The only things slightly moving were his eyes, trying to find something soothing to rest upon, but not finding it.  
They were glowing.  
This was not a good sign.  
  
"Hello, this is Aziraphale speaking. How may I help you?"  
"Angel?" The man's voice was not shaking; he'd made absolutely sure of that before dialling. He didn't want to appear weak in front of anyone. He had to remain strong, had to hold up his facade.  
The voice in the other end answered him. "Crowley? Is that you?"  
"Of course it's me! Exactly how many other callers do you get per day referring to you as 'angel'?"  
"Well, actually, I got a call from Uriel the other day, and he..."  
Crowley let out a deep, irritable sigh. "Angel, I didn't really want to know."  
"Oh." Aziraphale seemed a bit disappointed. But he recuperated quickly. "I suppose it was a... oh dear, what do you call it... a rhetorical question?"  
"Must've been. Anyway, could you get here ASAP? It's urgent, very urgent."  
"Oh, my. That certainly sounds serious." There was no trace of irony or sarcasm in his voice – it just wasn't in him. "Well, I suppose so. Where are you at?"  
Crowley looked around. Concrete garden, he thought to himself, but didn't say. "I'm... err... I'm outside a strip-club. Near the Ritz."  
"There are strip-clubs near the Ritz?!"  
"There is one now."  
Making people commit one of the Deadly Sins, and better yet: making them LIKE it... ah, it had been a wonderful day at work. Demonic schemes had never looked or felt so good.  
"CROWLEY!"  
"Hey, I'm just doing my job. You know that. So, are you coming or not?"  
"Well, I have some things to take care of first. Let me just wrap things up around here... give me half an hour."  
"See you then." Crowley hung up the phone. He took out a pack of cigarettes from the inner pocket of his black, slim coat, and lit one with a snap of his fingers. He pursed it through his lips, drew breath and then exhaled. Ah, sweet pollution.  
Pollution? Now where had he heard that before? He pondered a moment, then snapped his fingers (but this time, nothing happened.).  
Pollution... right! Thin, slippery fellow. He had had a nice crown. Crowley had rather fancied it, although not enough to motivate stealing it. He tried to resist lusting for things as much as possible these days; it wasn't good for him and his psyche; it distracted him. And yet, here he was.  
He sighed. _Marvellous, just marvellous. You'd think I'd learnt my lesson, but oh no! Nearly three years after Mishap Armageddon, and still, I'm lusting for nice jewellery and pretty angels.  
Wait.  
__Did I say that out loud? _  
  
Crowley violently shook the uncomfortable thoughts off himself, and resolutely sat down on the asphalt. He'd soon closed his eyes, drifting off into Land Oblivion. It had been a hard night. He hadn't been in the mood for tempting, and yet, he had to – as he'd said earlier to Aziraphale, after all, it was his job. And why neglect it?  
Why indeed.  
A scene played behind his closed eyelids. A summer morning, the dew resting like small precious pearls upon the grass. The sun, just about to rise above the trees. And beneath a big, old tree, two shapes seemingly made out of darkness and light lay beside one another, looking up at the brightly pastel coloured sky through the branches.  
"Look," said one of them. "All I'm saying is that if I wanted to, I could easily make you Fall."  
"No, that's not true," the other one retorted. He seemed very decisive. The gentle rays of the morning sun caressed his silhouette. He was really a very ordinary-looking man, but his eyes radiated compassion and serenity. That, at least, counted for something.  
"Is too. Tempting IS my job, remember?"  
Crowley almost woke up from his trance-like state of mind. Now, where had he seen this before? It all seemed awfully familiar, somehow.  
"That's not the point, Crowley."  
A-ha. So that was the case. Crowley quickly disposed of the memory in the manner that you get rid of the spinach you don't want to eat, but your mum's persistently trying to shove down your throat; he swept it under the table. That is to say, his mental table.  
Normally, memories like these didn't really bother him. It was just that in a situation like this, it was a bad idea to cloud your mind with things like that. Better to keep your focus on the real matter of concern.  
This fact, however, did not stop him from taking a couple of sips from the bourbon-filled flask that appeared on his command. Sorrow and distress, he figured, had to be dealt with in a comfortable way.  
  
When Aziraphale arrived at the scene, the couple of innocent-enough-sips had multiplied, and had now grown into five and a half bottles of bourbon, a miniature carafe of sherry and numerous whiskeys. Crowley was still sitting on the ground, in the exact same position as he'd been before, staring dully straight out into thin air.  
It was night-time now. The clock was nearing half past eleven, and Aziraphale had a guilty expression on his face as he approached him.  
"Sorry I took so long. I was delayed by... oh, dear."  
Aziraphale cut off his sentence when he saw the mess in front of him. Not only did Crowley look like he'd just been vigorously hugged, snuggled and left with only his humiliation by a malicious hoard of Teletubbies – the disaster standing, or rather laying in pieces, beside him was even more terrifying.  
  
It was a car. A Bentley, to be exact, of 1926 year's model. Crowley's most precious possession, all categories concerned. And it had been brutally savaged.  
The black car's paintwork had been scratched, multiple times, in what seemed to be some sort of occult pattern. Aziraphale didn't know exactly what it meant, though; after all, he was ethereal, not an occult being.  
Furthermore, and possibly most upsetting of it all, the car had also been vandalised using spraycans. The messages varied, though everything was obscene and – Aziraphale shuddered slightly – very inappropriate. Also, he was quite sure of the fact that almost everything that was spelled out there had to be fake. He'd most certainly never seen Crowley being intimate with anything possessing four legs, anyway.  
  
Crowley remained apathetic and frozen in that same position. The only thing that made Aziraphale sure that Crowley was still inside that fragile shell of flesh and bones was that he lifted the last bottle of bourbon to his mouth to drink now and then.  
"I think you've had quite enough of that," Aziraphale proclaimed. He reached down to Crowley and jerked the flask out of his hand. Crowley didn't protest an awful much, although in his defence, you had to say he really did try. It's just hard to hit a target when you see double of everything, and the world is swaying from side to side like an old-fashioned swing.  
"Hey you... you...! I was... well... that thing you do with your mouth... err... I was... ah, bloody hell." He gave up.  
"Would you sober up? You're of no use when you're wasted. I thought we'd gone over this before."  
"Wh... why are you screaming? Just... keep it down, why don't you. And would you kindly tell the little green men to buzz off."  
"You're so pathetic right now, I'm thinking of putting you out of your misery." He really wasn't. Angels didn't do that sort of thing, and particularly not this angel. But he was willing to say what ever was necessary at this point. "Stop being so bloody drunk! I know you can understand me, just listen. You have to help me find whoever did this, okay?"  
"Pretty, pretty stars..." Crowley had now turned his head to the sky, pointing towards it. "I bet you... I bet you know all of their names."  
"Crowley, have you been sitting here all day?"  
He got a nodded response. Aziraphale decided that it was time to try threat as a method of persuasion. He didn't really like it, but what could you do. Sometimes you just had to do things that were wrong.  
He took a deep breath, and then he tried to get the following sentence to sound as serious and cold-hearted as he could. "Well, you're sobering up now, whether you like it or not. Or else I will go away and never contact you again. And there will be no one for you to talk to except yourself. You know how boring that'll get. And then, They'll send a replacement, and I suspect you won't like that very much either. No Aziraphale, no Agreement. Do you get me?"  
Slowly, Crowley turned his head and looked him straight in the eye. His face had no particular expression, it was just... blank. Like a white sheet of paper.  
He blinked, then shuddered as the alcohol disappeared miraculously out of his system.  
"I found it like this. Have absolutely no idea who could've done it. I'd been working all night, you know, as usual, and then I come out to see this."  
Aziraphale nodded, and sat down beside him. Carefully, he put his hand on Crowley's shoulder. This situation, he realised, had to be dealt with some refinement.  
"Well..." Aziraphale harboured some unanswered questions and doubts as to why Crowley hadn't used his demonic and all-day-all-night-available powers to fix these small problems. After all, with just a mere snap of his fingers, wasn't he able to restore practically anything to normal form? "I'm just wondering... why haven't you... you know... fixed it already?"  
"You mean with dark, demonic force."  
"Exactly."  
"Don't think for a second that I haven't tried. But there's something protecting this damage." After speaking, he suddenly lit up like a small candle. "Hey, I've got an idea. Why don't you give it a go?"  
"Me?" Aziraphale looked horrified. "You've got to be joking. Me, using up a Miracle to help a demon? No offense," he assured his companion quickly, "but I don't think that'lll sit too well with the people Upstairs."  
"Oh, come on, Angel! You've helped me before – what's holding you back now?"  
"But those were ordinary Miracles. Small, insignificant to the great Ineffability. This is different. Plus, I would be helping you sustain a Deadly Sin."  
"Not following here." Crowley gave him a confused look.  
"Vanity. Ring a bell? You know what they say about men and their cars."  
Crowley rolled his eyes behind his protective, black windows of glass. "I'm not a man, I'm a demon."  
"Even worse." Azirahaple was resisting his urge to slap Crowley. He knew perfectly well what the angel was talking about – why was he being so damned stubborn? "And besides, if your "dark, demonic force" didn't do the trick, what makes you think that I can contribute in any way?"  
"Because I've heard that the best way to get cloth stained by red wine clean is to pour white wine all over it."

It took Aziraphale a while to understand what point Crowley was trying to get across. While he was trying to catch up, Crowley lit another cigarette. Considerately – and very uncharacteristically – he blew the smoke the other way, sparing Aziraphale all the coughing and choking.  
Finally, the angel understood the full meaning of what Crowley had said.  
"Ah. So you think this was done by demons or other evils. Am I correct?"  
"Pardon the expression, but hell yes. I do. Why, isn't it obvious?"  
Aziraphale gave him a blank stare. "Crowley, I'm not supposed to keep track of what all of your rivals and enemies are up to. Technically, I'm one of them, remember? If it hadn't been for the Agreement, we'd probably be at each others throats right now."  
"Right. You know, I seem to forget that sometimes. But that's a discussion for another time and place. Right now, we shall have to discuss more serious matters. Like who the Hell trashed my car."  
  
"That's an appropriate expression, considering the matter. Okey then. Give me a list of potential suspects."  
  
Crowley pondered for a moment. He seemed distracted, somehow, and Aziraphale did not particularly like the way the demon's eyes kept seeking his.  
Some minutes later, Crowley opened his thin lips to speak. Aziraphale was awaiting his answer eagerly; he didn't like to be kept on hold.  
"Well," Crowley finally said, thoughtfully. Apparently, he'd gone over his retort carefully. "At first, it all just screamed 'lower-level imp', but I've decided to look past the obvious and research more in depth whom might have brutally savaged my car in this manner."  
"Aha." The angel could do nothing but nod silently. This was really not his territory; he considered himself an unwilling passenger on a train, taking him to the cosy madness that was Crowley's mind.  
"So," continued the demon. "As you may or may not know, I can be pretty sarcastic sometimes... in a well-meaning way, of course. And this doesn't sit too well with the folks Downstairs. A cocky minion is the last thing They need, you know – They, much like your people, like their subordinates evil in a quiet and obedient way. And you know how much trouble Mishap Armageddon caused me – well, caused us both. The point is..."  
Aziraphale's deep sigh interrupted the demon's speech. "Yes, Crowley? Is there a point? This is starting to sound like just another one of your pointless, mindless ramblings."  
Again, Crowley rolled his eyes in disgust. Clearly, this heavenly being just didn't get it. "Angel, I'm not drunk, and we're not discussing advanced metaphysics, so would you let me make my point clear without you cutting me off to criticise my way of explaining things?"  
The angel quickly decided to shut the hell up. This, he figured, was in his best interest. "By all means, continue. This is fascinating."  
"Glad you like it. Anyway, I've come to the conclusion that it has to be a pretty high-ranking demon. Fallen angel-type. Obviously quite pissed off by something. And you know that there's only one fiend matching that profile."  
"The president of the United States? You know, he hasn't come over that thing with you spilling blood all over his Chinese imported rug."  
"That wasn't my fault," muttered Crowley, almost inaudibly. "Those politicians were begging for it. But no, I wasn't thinking of him. Think... smaller, yet classier. White hat."  
"Ah, Michael Jackson!"  
Crowley resisted his instant impulse to hit the angel with something very big, very hard. After all, hadn't he always tried to uphold the Agreement between them? And hadn't the angel always stood by his side when he'd really needed him? Brace yourself, you old serpent, he thought to himself.  
"No, the King of Pop isn't high-ranking. Besides, I told him to get rid of that hat a long time ago. It doesn't go with his colours."  
Aziraphale groaned. "I don't have a clue, Crowley. Could you please tell me, so we can get on with things? My back is starting to hurt."  
"The path of the righteous is filled with divine pain, dear."  
"Shut up."  
"Okay." Crowley took out his pack of cigarettes, and offered Aziraphale one. He declined.  
"You know I don't like those things. They're not healthy."  
"And drinking ten cups of hot chocolate o' day is?" Crowley smirked. They both knew each other all to well by now. The conversation dropped.  
  
A new day was arriving. If there had been treetops anywhere near the urbanised parking lot, the sun would have begun climbing up towards them, struggling to become visible. The sky was turning a mild shade of purple, and there was a vague hint of morning mist in the air.  
This all was, of course, quite beautiful. The demon didn't notice.  
The angel, on the other hand, was enjoying to its full extent.  
  
"Isn't this just radiant, Crowley? The world, the dawn of a new day. A new beginning."  
"One might say so," Crowley said in a nonchalant sort of way. "One might also point out that it's the beginning of yet another day of destruction for mankind. I don't really see the point in sunsets, anyway. Just a mere decoration, something to lure humans into believing that this world is, in fact, a beautiful thing."  
The angel sighed. "You don't fool me, Crowley. You like the world."  
"Yes," the demon said thoughtfully. "But it isn't beautiful. I'm not saying that's a bad thing, though," he hurried to add. "All the more sins provoked by this place and its inhabitants, all the more advantages for my side. I'm just saying, it's pointless to try and embellish your mistakes. It's better to stand up for what you've created, what you've done."  
Aziraphale nodded slowly. Suddenly, everything Crowley said fell into place. He hesitated, then cautiously asked him: "You're talking about Him now, aren't you? You're talking about God."  
"Yes."  
"I thought we were going to find and punish the ones who did this to your car." The angel had suddenly found himself in a situation he was not comfortable with. It's all right for a demon to be blasphemous – after all, that is its job – but if he were to agree, that would be an entirely different thing. After all, hadn't the Morningstar's Fall begun just like that? With mere blasphemy? He was better off with his mouth shut – one misdirected word could mean his own Fall. He stood up, with more than a little discomfort down his back in the process, and grabbed hold of Crowley's hand – the one not holding a lit cigarette. "Come on. We'd better get moving."  
Crowley narrowed his eyes until they were but two mildly glowing slits. He refused standing up, and the angel felt quite powerless against his will. "You're acting awfully avoiding, angel. What are you up to?"  
Aziraphale let go of the demon's hand. "I am not. I just think that we should start looking. And besides, you're the one who has been avoiding the real matter of concern here. You still haven't told me who your likely suspect is."  
"That's because I'm not sure, angel. I can't be sure of anything. Let's say I find the one who did this. And then what? Huh? Kill him? It'll only mean more trouble for me Downstairs. If it is indeed a demon, he'll need a new body, won't he? And when he tells his, and my, superiors who made him leave his body, what will I have left for a defence?"  
"You have managed once," Aziraphale pointed out. "You did kill Ligur. And you trapped Hastur in the phone."  
"I did." Crowley smiled faintly in remembrance of his great success, but then, he returned to his previous and well-operating mood: upset, angry and blunt. "I sure did, but I was lucky to have managed it. Don't you get it? I can't expect to get away with that stunt twice. What would you have done? Would you have faced up to your superiors and defied them to such an extent? Killing your own kind – would you have the guts? They're already suspicious of you and your morals for fraternising with me."  
The angel hesitated. He hadn't been prepared for such questions. He wasn't even sure if he had the answers to them.  
"I don't have a lot of worldly possessions. Not a lot I would sacrifice my existence for, anyway."  
"How about the book-shop?"  
Aziraphale thought about this for a second. His first edition script of the Holy Bible, hidden away in a secret vault. His old scrolls, originating God knows where and when. And the elegantly bound copy of the Koran, its pages marked only insignificantly by time, though it had been created long before mankind even had had a proper name for it.  
"What's your point?" he murmured.  
"My point is..." He cut the sentence off, and became quiet. It was as though he was thinking carefully through what he was gaining by arguing with Aziraphale at a time like this. Gain was important. Without gain, there was only loss, and speaking of loss, he'd had enough of that already today. And speaking of today, today was already tomorrow; he had wasted a whole day just sitting about doing nothing, and he still hadn't punished the demon, possibly person, who had done this to his beloved automobile.  
He grunted. "We should get going."  
The angel standing beside him smiled a serene smile. "That's more like it."  
"Shut up, angel."  
"Okay."


	2. The customer's always right

**Chapter two: The customer's always right**  
  
If you aim to find something, or someone, in a city larger than your own apartment, you have to think big. You have to put yourself in a mental state where you can identify yourself with the person you're looking for. That is to say, you should think like this: Where does A usually hang out? (A in this example being the person you're looking for.) What does he normally do on a Saturday? And more, if not most importantly: Does he even want to be found?  
If the answer to question number three is 'no', you've clearly got yourself a problem on your hands. Trying to find a person who doesn't want to be found isn't just hard, it's damned near impossible. Because you see, there are a million ways to hide oneself from someone, and I'm not just talking about behind your wonderful set of velvet curtains from IKEA with small tufts at the bottom.  
If this person in addition to that is an occult being, like for example a demon, it's really best to give up the game.  
Unless, of course, you are a demon yourself.  
  
There were Places, Crowley told Aziraphale as they were walking down the street toward the mall. Places where you could get almost anything if you had the right amount of hard cash, including information. You could also, if you wanted to and had conveniently forgotten your chequebook, trade information, depending on how Big and Important the info in question was.  
Crowley, however, had already used up all his info, so money was really the only alternative he had. That would have been great, except he had no money either.  
Aziraphale knew where the demon was going by telling him this. He had heard it before.  
"So you want to borrow money from me."  
"No, no, no," said Crowley, in a less convincing way. "Not from you, not from your own pocket. From your bookshop money, of course. And I promise, I'll pay you back every last penny."  
"I don't know," Aziraphale said doubtfully. "You still owe me the money from that bet we made in the 13th century."  
"What...? Oh, right. What was that all about, anyway?"  
"You said, 'I bet you these round pieces of glass that correct your vision won't become popular. People who wear them will be total outcasts. I wouldn't ever wear something like that.'."  
"They still call people who wear glasses 'four-eyes', you know."  
"Yes, but that's not the point. You're wearing them yourself."  
"I'm most certainly not... oh." Crowley blushed. "That's not the same thing."  
"But you still lost the bet."  
"Okay, okay," Crowley retorted, waving his hands vaguely in the air as though he was trying to scare off a hoard of flies. "Angel, I promise, you'll get your money back. I'll even work at Victoria's Secret if I have to. Just... lend me the money. Please? This is important to me."  
Aziraphale smiled at the thought of Crowley handling women's lingerie all day long. That possibility alone was worth the chance of never seeing that money ever again.  
"Okay. I'll gamble. But I'll never again lend anything out to you if you break your promise this time. That's the interest I'm charging for any delay in payment. Do we have a deal?"  
"Indeed we do." Crowley smirked in a self-confident way. "Let's bring this guy... err, demon... to our feet."  
  
They were now approaching the mall, where they had been headed. The angel hadn't bothered much in what direction they were moving; just that fact that they were moving at all satisfied him fully. After spending twelve hours on the asphalt ground trying to comfort a demon had made him quite weary of waiting. He wanted this over, and fast. Not only was he getting tired of running demon errands when he could have been out by the pond feeding ducks – it was such a great day for doing that, too – he didn't much like the idea of a Crowley not having got his revenge. Aziraphale imagined that that would be like when a caffeine-addicted adult tries going a whole day without coffee. It wasn't a pretty sight, he knew that. Many of the crimes that shook the city up every day, in fact, were committed by people low on caffeine, or, in some cases, high on said legalised drug. He did not particularly want to be around when Crowley finally unleashed his rage.  
Because he would. Aziraphale had known this demon for so long, he knew that Crowley would not be able to let this go without proper revenge.  
  
"Uh... Crowley?"  
"Yeah?"  
"Err... where exactly are we headed now?"  
"To that Place. You know. I told you about it before. Man, you have serious Alzheimer tendencies."  
"Do you mean to tell me that that is such a Place?"  
The pair had now got so close to the shop-window that he could see just what type of products they specialised in. The window was filled to the brim with dolls, teddy bears and video games named after various cartoons and card decks. The cartons where brightly coloured, in a way that would easily attract small kid's attention – which was, of course, the idea. It was pure genius. The kids saw the cartons, their minds filled up with Greed, and seconds later the process had begun. They'd do just about anything to get their parents to buy said video games, and the parents went mad in the process.  
It was all so perfectly evil, so meticulously planned, that Aziraphale had to turn away in disgust.  
"Well, what place could be more perfect, angel dear? Who would ever suspect a toy-store?"  
Aziraphale had to admit it made perfect sense.  
  
As they walked through the door, a bell rang furiously just above them, signalling their arrival. The noise was so shrill that the angel had to put his well-manicured hands over his sensitive ears. He had very good hearing.  
It was good to have great hearing in his line of work.  
Toys were lined up on big shelves, long aisles, as far as the eye could see, one fluffier and more diabolically entertaining than the other. Aziraphale tried to avoid looking at them.  
Crowley, on the other hand, enjoyed it fully. Human inventiveness was intriguing. How to make good soldiers out of small boys? Put various kinds of weapons in their hands right from the beginning, of course. And although seemingly harmless – unless you consider squirting water in people's faces a danger to society – they encouraged the boys to upgrade them as they got bigger, and so, the weapons got more and more dangerous. Thus, the human race continued making a living through death. And they never saw it coming. The day the boys were fully educated killers, from watching too many Arnold Schwartzenegger movies and playing with weapons from birth, the whole society was one big question mark. They had no capacity of understanding that they were, in fact, the cause of this development from the beginning.  
Intriguing, that's what it was.  
  
A man came towards them from behind the counter. He had a funny way of walking, as though he was limping slightly. Aziraphale frowned.  
"Welcome to our establishment! What can I do you for?"  
Crowley gave him his best 'you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me' look. Then, he took off his sunglasses, and put them in his coat pocket.  
"I'd like to speak to the Management."  
The man's smile, which had been plastic and fake as could be, fainted considerably. "Well, I'm afraid I can't help you there, mister...?"  
"Crowley. Anthony J Crowley."  
"I see. I was told you might come by." The man dropped the unnecessary smile completely and moved towards the counter from where he'd come. "Well, as it turns out, the Management isn't available for any personal meetings right now, but if you leave them a message, I'll make sure they get it. Is that a reasonable agreement, mister Crowley?" He tuned his back on his 'customers', fiddling with some papers beneath the desk.  
"No," Crowley said bluntly. He walked up to the counter, and swung the man around with a quick gesture of his hand. The man, apparently quite shaken up by this, stared at the demon's eyes, which were now glowing in a very unpleasant manner.  
"Look here, you useless maggot. I haven't walked all the way here to be treated this way. I know for a fact that the Management, your bosses, are here somewhere. If they're in the basement, in the attic, or perhaps hiding behind your ugly, unfashionable counter here, I don't know. But I do know they're here."  
Aziraphale noticed that Crowley was hissing noticeably. He felt a bit sorry for the man behind the counter. He had no idea what he was dealing with.  
"Now you listen to me. I'm a paying customer, just like anybody else. If you don't treat me with respect, I'll take my business somewhere else, where they value my money better. But first, I'll rip out your filthy little tongue, slowly, so you can really feel the pain. And that's just the beginning. You should know what I could do to your tail if I wanted to."  
Tail? Ah! That would explain the funny way of walking. Aziraphale liked it when things fell into place like that.  
The man (or being; with everything said, the angel couldn't tell what he was, and he wasn't sure he wanted to, either) wiped the sweat off his forehead with a formerly white napkin.  
"They said they didn't want to be disturbed. Apparently, they're having some sort of meeting down there."  
"Down there. Now that's what I wanted to hear all along." Crowley grabbed hold of the creature's head and patted him condescendingly. "Good boy. By the way, I like what you're doing here. You and me, we're almost in the same business."  
"What might that be?"  
"The spreading of sins across the globe. You're doing a lot of my work for me, you know. Leading the youngsters into the right path in the early stages of their childhood, when they're the most... teachable. Congratulations, I couldn't have done it better myself."  
"Th-thank you, mister Crowley." The man spun around and pointed eagerly towards the other end of the store. "The staircase is hidden behind the Pokémon shelf. It's in aisle seven."  
"Okay." When they'd walked a couple of steps toward their goal, Crowley turned his head. "So what do we do to..." He gestured something the angel couldn't bring himself to understand the meaning of.  
"You just have to press Pikachu's stomach. It'll make an annoying noise, and then you'll see what happens."  
"Ah."  
So the gesture hadn't been dirty, thought Aziraphale to himself. Well, at least it had been shady. You never could tell with demons.

If there was one thing the Management hated, it was conflicts being solved because of their sold information.  
They were not some sort of 'peace-mongering' operation. They didn't support peace in the first place. In fact, the more conflicts remaining unsolved, followed up by revenge, revenge and more revenge, the better. It meant more money for them, and that was always, under all circumstances, a good thing.  
So whenever a conflict, a fight concerning just about anything from borrowed loose change to real scandalous affairs, got solved, you could count on the fact that the Management were sitting somewhere in a very dark room, smoking very expensive cigars and talking about what had went wrong. The Management always grieved hopelessly when they knew they'd lost precious gold.  
That's not to say, of course, that they tried to prevent peace between concerned parties. They just didn't do a single thing to help said parties get along.  
  
The Management had occupied this specific cellar for so many years they'd lost count. The only thing they knew for sure was that there were mouldy pieces of pizza in the corners that had almost grown into a new life form. The fact that they seemed to be flesh-eaters didn't contribute to the place's general atmosphere of safety and calm.  
The location of headquarters was strategically chosen. The bricks constituting the walls surrounding them were a bit loose from age, so that if you needed something temporarily hidden, all you had to do was poke on them and they would fall to the floor, revealing the perfect hiding place for thin documents or small amounts of money. In addition to that, it was close to an abandoned mine that not many beings, supernatural or not, knew of. If the Management ever needed to hide, that was their perfect spot. Who'd look inside a death trap to find what they were looking for, they figured.  
  
Consisting of five variations of matter – out of which only some could be called men, and that was being overly optimistic– the Management 'held court' from a couple of desks, pulled together to create an entity. They sat on chairs that reminded the customers fairly acquainted with art and architecture of something out of Dracula's 12th century castle, adding a nice gothic touch to the room. Mr Jones had been a house decorator before he'd joined the Management, and took pride in creating the perfect working environment for him and his colleagues.  
  
Along with Mr Jones, there was also mister Horowitz. He was a hybrid between a human and a lower class imp, which had resulted in him having not only having a human body, but also sported two nicely polished horns in his forehead. He had joined many years ago, or, as he liked to put it: "Before this establishment had even got a regular clientele!". He enjoyed dressing up in women's clothing on late afternoons, but his companions had no idea. He wasn't the type to share, or even the type people felt comfortable sharing with. Maybe it had something to do with the pitchfork he liked having around.  
  
Representing the more obscure side of the group, a hat had its place on the second chair from the right, beside Mr Horowitz. It wasn't a normal hat (if it had been it would have had no business in this place, anyway) but a warlock, whom by mistake had turned himself into a hat. It was fashioned in dark red corduroy, which Mr Jones never seized to argue was totally wrong, and hat a pattern that seemed to be consisting of ambiguous Rorschach dots. His real name was too complex to spell out, and therefore his companions simply called him Mr Bowler.  
  
The fourth member of the Management was a very anonymous individual. He was the type of bloke you might have known from your high-school, but when he comes up to you to ask how you're doing, you have no idea what so ever who it is standing before you and kissing your ass. If you'd seen him on the street, you would have looked right past him, and if he spoke to you, you would automatically sort his voice out, like the noise of an annoying flying bug circling 'round your ear. His name was Mr Connoly. He did most of the filing.  
On a more interesting note, the most powerful and influential person in the whole Management group was the charismatic Mr Tennessee. No one knew why he was named after a state, they just knew it was better not to ask. They probably wouldn't like to know the answer anyway.  
  
Mr Tennessee (who tended to quickly, but not without a sense of style, slay anyone who referred to him as 'Mr Tallahassee') was a man who radiated self-confidence, in a smug, self-centred way. He was always nicely groomed, even when he'd been out for a walk in a full-scale hurricane. His costume had obviously been ironed methodically, and thus, he gave the impression of being straightforward, precise and punctual.  
  
He was the one who was in charge of the whole Operation. This was because he, as he himself put it, 'had enough authority to lead and command the others'.  
He meant business.  
  
The Management was discussing a very serious matter, when the two guests stumbled down the staircase and into the basement Office.  
"My point is, this table – err, I mean these benches, they don't go with the rest of the interior."  
"Oh, I just knew you were going to criticise my decision to have them repainted! You're always picking on me!"  
Mr Bowler drew breath in a very violent and threatening way. "Look who's talking! You idiot, you can't tell the difference between magenta and scarlet!"  
Mr Jones gasped. "How dare you! You stupid... hat! I was once the queen of England's personal decorator – I know this!"  
"Well lah-dih-fucking-dah!"  
"Shut up, the both of you!" roared Mr Horowitz. "I haven't had any sleep in three days, and if you insist on going on like this, I might as well give up the game entirely!"  
Mr Connoly stuttered something under his breath. No one heard what he was saying, because at this point, everyone was screaming at the top of his lungs.  
Everyone except Mr Tennessee. He was quietly reading through a couple of documents, whilst trying to fix his hairdo with his free hand. He knew that they'd stop the second he told them so, and he was content with them fouling the air with swearing for now. He wasn't the type of person who needed peace and quiet. In fact, chaos inspired him in his work.  
Suddenly, he noticed to individuals standing at the foot of the stair, looking at the Management with a weird look on their faces. It was as if they didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  
With an indication almost to small to be noticeable, Mr Tennessee quieted his co-workers down. They fell silent in a spooky symbiotic way – almost as if they'd been told of telepathically.  
"Yes? You wanted to see us, gentlemen?"  
The more prominent figure of the two – a man dressed in black, wearing a nice leather jacket – took a step forward. His friend kept a low profile behind him.  
"Indeed we did. We would like some information."  
"Nothing out of the ordinary, then. Will this be a trade or a buy?"  
"Err, it'll be a buy. I have the money right here with me." The man pointed at his friend, who nodded eagerly.  
Mr Tennessee frowned. The idea would take some time to get used to, but he was pretty sure Mr Jones at least would be interested. He shrugged.  
"Well, we usually don't accept pretty boys as currency, but I guess we could make an exception."  
The dark man looked at him in surprise. He didn't seem to comprehend fully. When he finally understood what Mr Tennessee was suggesting, he started laughing so hard the Management thought he was going to explode.  
"You thought...? Heh... ehe... you thought he was... and... heh... this is just... too much!"  
The fair-haired man glared at his companion, clearly insulted. "He meant that I have the money on me. In my wallet."  
Mr Jones seemed disappointed. Tennessee just nodded. "It's a... human mistake, I suppose."  
"Suppose so."  
The leather-clad young man had stopped laughing now, and wiped the tears from his eyes. "I'm sorry for the interruption, gentlemen. It's just... the thought hadn't occurred to me that angels could be used as hard cash."  
Mr Horowitz, who'd been sipping on a cup of hot tea (spiced with Innocent Blood™), choked on it. "A-angel? An angel? You've brought an angel to our establishment? Don't you know that's against the rules?"  
The man looked at him in mock surprise. "What, don't angels get to have grudges? Is there anything wrong with their money? Because, like I said to your nitwit lizard upstairs, if you've got a problem with us, we'll take our business elsewhere!"  
Mr Jones thought it best to prevent the customers from leaving. Plus, he wanted to look good in his boss's eyes.  
"There's no problem at all. In fact, we welcome different species here. And you are...?"  
"Demon. Crowley's the name."  
"Crowley!" Jones smiled his slippery smile. "Wasn't there an occultist named Aleister Crowley a couple of years ago? Yes, I do seem to recall that. Is that where you got your nifty name?"  
Crowley let a grimace of disgust wrinkle his face. "No," he said, "that's not it at all."  
"Then where's it from? Does it mean anything special?"  
The demon looked at him in contempt. "I don't suppose you'll be needing this information to close the deal, now will you?"  
Jones shook his head. "No, I'm just interested."  
"Big mistake, Jonesy," said Mr Bowler through invisible, gritted teeth. "Don't let the customer know you're interested. That decreases our chances of bargaining."  
"Shut up," wheezed Jones through equally gritted teeth. Then, he turned to face Crowley again. "If you're not interested in making small talk, perhaps we should get to business. But first, give us the money."  
"I don't trust anything with horns," said Crowley suspiciously, peering at Mr Horowitz. "First you give me the information. Then you get my money. I've worked hard for them, and I'm not about to let you scumbags steal 'em away without giving something for them."  
"Well, technically, Crowley," began Aziraphale from behind him, "technically, the money's not..."  
"Sssch, angel. Let me do the talking."  
"Okay."  
"So what do you need information regarding, mister Crowley?" mister Tennessee broke off in a friendly, yet threatening tone. The result resembled a line spoken by some TV-personality; Don't move, we'll be right back. Do not touch the remote.  
"Someone's thrashed something very dear to me," said Crowley sternly. "It would be nice to know whom, so I could execure proper bloody payback."  
"Let me guess. They killed your dog?" mister Bowler said excitedly. He'd always been great with guessing things in the old days when he was not made out of moth-eaten fabric. "No, wait. They raped and pillaged your woman and/or apartment?"  
Aziraphale shuddered at the thought of some unknown evil raping Crowley's apartment.  
"Worse," Crowley said in a glum tone of voice. "They vandalised my car."  
A deep, heart-felt "oooooh" was heard from the Management table. Though they were a most curious mix of species, and although they didn't exactly lead a normal life, the pain of losing a car was somthing they could all relate to. After all, they were men.  
"So now you need our services to make reality of this assumably well-planned revenge plot you've got worked out in your head?"  
Crowley pondered for a moment. He hadn't really thought anything out – he'd figured he'd just improvise. He'd always been good with improvising. Perhaps now was the time to start figuring something out.  
"Yes, that's it. Exactly."  
Mr Tennessee smiled unpleasantly. He liked revenge. It always ended in so much pain, anguish and if you were even more lucky, blood. Quite amazing, because this revenge thing was entirely human to begin with. When demons fought in the old days, they'd normally just slay eachother, and that was the end of it. I'm sorry, but you invaded my territory and ravished my wife, and I shall therefore be forced to brutally kill you. No offense. Emotions had never been involved at all – except maybe pride and honour, that was it. Yet nowadays, when species fought, it was more of a vendetta than it had been before. Revenge got all mixed up with the meaningless impulses of the brain that were called 'feelings', and that's why it never ended simply anymore. In the good old days, the conflict had consisted of two acts.  
One: the actual misdeed itself. Two: payback. Thereafter, all was finished.  
But not anymore. Nowadays, it just never ended. All had spun out of control.  
"Delightful," said mister Tennessee, like a predator who'd just swallowed a deer. In one piece. He made a sign toward mister Horowitz, who snapped his fingers quickly on his boss's command. In the air before Crowley, a document floated indecisively. It seemed very old, and spots of grease tainted it. Crowley didn't want to think of where the grease might've come from.  
"Just sign on the dotted line," Tennessee grinned. "You don't want to read it all through, trust me – it's just formalities regarding responsability, etcetera etcetera. You can imagine."  
"Unfortunately, I can," Crowley mumbled under his breath, and glared at the Management suspiciously.  
"I don't think you should sign that, Crowley," whispered Aziraphale. "Read it through, then consider all possible ways this could go wrong, and then..."  
"I don't have time for all this bureaucratic, legal nonsense," snapped Crowley back. "I need this information, badly, and these guys aren't giving me it for free; I have to play by their rules. Angel, I know what I'm doing, and I'd advice you not to doubt me."  
Aziraphale pouted. It looked ridiculous. "I was just trying to help," he said in a hurt tone of voice.  
"I've been through far worse than this, haven't I? Trust me, angel, I don't need you on this one. This I can handle. I can manage going down the rabbit hole – I don't need you pushing me." In a softer voice, he then added: "But it would be nice to have you with me when I get through."  
The angel didn't respond. He felt no need to.  
  
Upon grabbing the pencil also floating mid-air in hummingbee style, Crowley signed the contract without hesitation. Aziraphale couldn't read what it said; it was all a bunch of occult symbols. Appearantly, the demon had learnt his lesson well.  
The pen bled letters onto the parchment, bloody red.  
Crowley looked at it in disgust.  
"Please don't tell me that's real blood. That's so cliché!"  
"It's only Chardonnay wine," Bowler coughed. "Jones was bored one day and had read all too many magasines about inventiveness in every day life. About adding excitement to slentrian behaviour patterns, I believe."  
"I can't help it if I'm unique!" Jones shouted, bewildered. "And what's wrong with adding a small personal touch to your workplace?"  
Crowley looked around. "Small?" he hissed to himself, and noted especially the small silk bows in the 13th Century chandalier.  
"Jonesy, darling, we're not the social services," bantered mister Horowitz.  
"Shut. The hell. Up."  
Mister Tennessee's voice was cold. In fact, it was so cold, Crowley wondered if he should move, maybe jump up and down, so that he wouldn't risk freezing on the floor.  
"My apologies on behalf of my colleagues. They lack basic skills in behaving themselves."  
"Oh, it's perfectly allright," Aziraphale said cheerfully. "Mind, I've been spending thousands of years alongside Crowley."  
"I thought I told you to shut up," hissed Crowley to the angel. He then turned to the Management with a quizzical look on his face. "So. You give me what I came for. I go upstairs, and leave the money with your lizard clerc. He runs down to you with the cash. Everyone satisfied with that solution?"  
The Management looked at eachother. Mister Connoly tried to say something important about ever trusting a demon, but of course, no one heard him.  
Tennessee nodded. "We have a deal."  
"Seems so."  
"I will now tell you how to aquire what you came for." His voice changed into a hypnotic, soft tone. Crowley felt as though his mind, his very thoughts, were moving through something like thick syrup, or possibly gravy. Crowley thought of the exclusive pancakes you could get at the Ritz if you came in on a Tuesday. They had maple syrup. It always tasted devilishly good. Yes, when he thought about it... it was definitely like moving through syrup.  
"There is a document waiting for you up on one of the shelves, hidden inside the same fluffy animal you pressed to get down here. You must rip it open, and then pull out the document. Then ask the lizard to replace it with a new toy. After you've opened the document, I'd advise you to destroy it, else it might self-combust.  
Also, if you tap it twice with a spoon, you'll get a free bonus recipe for home-made applepie."  
Crowley's mind tangeled free from the hypnotic grip.  
"You said _what_ now?"  
"Guess who's idea it was to begin with," Bowler grunted.  
Jones looked very proud of himself.  
"Yes," Crowley spoke doubtfully, "that all seems good and well, possibly except for the applepie bit. I've never cared for that stuff. I suppose we'll take our leave. Come along, angel..."  
"Wait!" The angel looked distraught. "Crowley, please don't tell me you're buying into this load of crap! What if it's a trick?"  
"Look, angel, they know I'll report them if they con me. That would mean bye bye to business, and worse... bye bye to all the money. The customer's always right, you know."  
Tennessee grinned. "You've played this game before, I take it."  
Crowley smirked. "Some."


	3. Necessary measures

**Chapter three: Necessary measures**

_(author's note: Third chapter, yay! Uhm... I'd just like to add an explanation for the theodicé problem, since I assume there are people out there who aren't familiar with this thesis. So... here goes:_

_If the evil in the world is intended by God he is not good. If it violates his intentions he is not almighty. God can't be both almighty and good. There are many objections to this, but none that holds since god is ultimately responsible for the existence of evil. Besides, if only God can create he must have created evil. If somebody else (the devil) created evil, how can one know that God, and not Satan created the universe?_

_There it is... well, folks, I'm off to write the next chapter! Please R&R!)_

---

Immediately after the finishing conversation with the Management, Crowley ran up the stairs so fast Aziraphale had trouble remaining alongside him. He had a sort of "beat-you-to-the-punch" attitude, and until the angel reached the top of the stairs, he couldn't even begin to imagine what that attitude had to do with anything at all.  
Peeking above a snowstorm of white stuffing, Crowley smiled, seeming honestly warm at heart – as honest and warm at heart as a demon could be, anyway. In his hands, he was holding the remains of what once might or might not have been a fluffy, yellow Pikachu replica. There was a document on the floor in front of him.  
"I mutilated it," said Crowley, and Aziraphale almost expected him to laugh maniacally like the villains always do in bad Hollywood movies which are always a huge success globally. He didn't, though. "I tore it into shreds, and then I poked its eyes out."  
"Yes, I can see that. May I ask why?"  
Crowley seemed to think hard about this for a moment's time. After it had lapsed, he shrugged. "I don't know," he said, and let go of the torn-up remains. They fell onto the floor, just beside the document. "I just felt like destroying something." He lit up. "Hey, maybe it's all that built up rage I've got inside me, that hasn't had an opportunity to come out yet. You know, thousands of years as a demon can be pretty rough."  
"Sounds to me like you've been watching one to many episodes of Dr Phil," sighed Aziraphale. This always had to happen when Crowley'd been left alone in his apartment for too long, all by himself. There was nothing decent on the telly these days. Come to think of it, there never had been.  
"Oh," said Crowley disappointedly. "Yeah." He bent down nimbly and picked up the document. It was a bit tattered, but he could easily read the letters; the person who had filed it had a flowing, beautiful handwriting. Crowley guessed it must have been Mr Jones' work.  
He lowered his sunglasses, and peered at it. It was sealed shut with some sort of waxy substance. He read aloud from the etiquette.  
"'File number 10896. Regarding the destruction of one veteran model Bentley. Ownership unknown.' Ownership unknown? What the bloody hell is this? I'll show them ownership unknown! That car belonged to me, dammit!"  
"Crowley, would you calm down?" said Aziraphale irritably. "Can we at least get out of here before you start making a fuss about this too? If someone's sold this information to the Management, he or she may have been innocent bystanders. They might not have known whose car it was being trashed."  
"There are no innocent bystanders," muttered Crowley. But he shut up none the less.

After Aziraphale had politely told the lizard at the shop counter he had to replace the stuffed animal maimed by Crowley, the pair walked silently out of the store. Talking to said lizard had just naturally become the angel's duty; after all, being polite wasn't really Crowley's 'cup of tea'. It also served a greater purpose – for the first time since this head hunt had begun, Aziraphale actually felt useful. He felt as though he was contributing with something, rather than just following Crowley around, seemingly irritating him no matter what he did.

"So," said Aziraphale, once they'd reached a street-corner appropriately far away from the shop. "Are you going to open it?"  
Crowley looked at the envelope he had clutched tightly in his left hand. It had become quite wrinkly from the treatment. "Yeah," he said, sounding thoughtful. "I suppose. When we get to the park."  
"You want to feed the ducks?"  
"Mhm."  
Aziraphale nodded. "Yes, that's probably a good idea. A soothing environment for a not so soothing event."  
"What do you mean, 'not so soothing event'? It's just envelope. I'm just going to open it. What's the big deal?"  
"Yeah, well..." The angel cut himself off mid-sentence. "I'm just thinking, you might not be so happy and cheerful once you find out who did this. The pond and ducks will come in handy."  
"Okay, I see your point. Let's head over there."  
  
Arriving at the pond, the two less than human creatures both snapped their fingers, and unfolded their magnificent wings. Since nobody could see them – they'd made sure of that, too, when they'd snapped their fingers – it mattered little if they got some air beneath them. It couldn't be healthy, this having to hide them all day long.  
The ducks were swimming along in a content sort of way, only stopping rarely to dive to cool off. The sun was unconditionally merciless this afternoon; it broke down all defense and made otherwise perfectly sane persons take off all their clothes and jump from high towers into ice-cold water for some sort of strange salvation. Crowley thought of this as a pathetic sort of exhibitionism – the most primitive kind. Although, he had to admit, he wouldn't have objected to a small swimming tour along with Aziraphale at this moment... just to escape the heat momentarily, of course.

They both sat down on the grass just beside the pond. Not uttering a word, Crowley fingered the envelope, desperately trying to get it open. It had no effect. Aziraphale watched his pointless tries with more than a little surprise.  
"You can't get it open?" he asked, trying to sound as non-mocking as possible.  
Crowley gave him a Look. He immediately shut up, knowing in his heart this was definitely not the time for being understanding and helpful. The demon had to figure this one out on his own; otherwise, his pride would take a serious hit and probably not recover fully until he could humiliate Aziraphale in some way again. The angel thought that that just had to be what demons did for therapeutic purposes. After many a thousand years together with him, Aziraphale still didn't know for certain whether this was the case, or if it just had to do with Crowley looking at humiliation as a kind of sport you practice when you're entirely and utterly bored.

Whilst Crowley struggled with the envelope, Aziraphale took the time to inspect the surroundings. He realised that although he'd been in this park so many times he'd lost count at least a hundred years ago, he'd never really taken in what had been around him.  
There were a lot of trees. Trees looking like they'd been there since the Dawn of Time (which they, of course, hadn't – Aziraphale could have told if they'd been), trees looking almost like anorectic human beings, and trees looking like lampposts. Except for being all shiny and fashioned in metal, of course.  
The park attracted all sorts of different people. Like, for example, couples. They seemed to enjoy the primitive nature surrounding them. The angel guessed this had something to do with basic human instincts. Like a 'back to the nature' sort of thing. Anyway, they strolled around aimlessly hand in hand, kissing, fondling each other.  
It wasn't like Aziraphale envied them or anything. He'd seen other sides of relationships as well, and wasn't particularly fond of being yelled at just because he'd looked at another person in a caring way. Such things just didn't seem at all appealing. Yet when he saw the lovebirds passing by, crossing his path, he felt something sting inside him – maybe just because he needed food, but it could also have other reasons.  
He didn't like speculating in that area.

"Aha!"  
Aziraphale's line of thought was broken off by a delighted exclamation from his demon companion. He'd finally managed getting the envelope open. He waved the torn-up piece of paper in front of the angel.  
"Superglue," he explained, smiling happily. "It was all over the envelope, and when that shit's dry, it's damned near impossible to break."  
Nodding, Aziraphale examined the document that had been inside. It was as small as a visiting card, and seemingly blank.  
"Crowley..."  
The demon lay his hand over the angel's mouth. This shut him up quite efficiently. "Calm down, angel. I know what to do."  
As the angel watched silently, Crowley uttered a couple of words in ancient Aramaic. Then, he waited. Only seconds later, the blank visiting card started showing letters rapidly.  
"You need not ever mistrust when I'm around, angel." Crowley let go of Aziraphale's mouth. The angel could feel the slightly reptilian warmth that his hand had provided slipping off. "I hope this'll teach you that I've got solutions to every problem conceivable."  
"_Almost _every problem conceivable," corrected Aziraphale.  
"What?"  
"I said, you've got solutions to _almost_ every problem conceivable," answered the angel. "No one could have _all_ solutions. Only God has."  
To which Crowley murmured, "Or maybe he doesn't. Maybe he just wants you to think so."  
The angel groaned. "You know I can't agree with you on that."  
"Yes, I know that perfectly well. But is that because you really don't think so, or is it because you're afraid to speak your mind? He's got you by the balls, angel – pardon the expression – thinking He's almighty just because He can decide on whether you get to stay angelic or not. And you believe Him."  
"Well, _you_ fell, didn't you?"  
"Sauntered," Crowley said mechanically.  
"Tomato tomato. I mean, it's not like it's all just a big myth that if you're insubordinate, you'll get due punishment, in my case Falling. God doesn't like delinquents. You should know that by now."  
"Haven't you listened to anything I've said? My point is, maybe He _doesn't_ have all the answers. I'll buy that He's powerful, that He's the mightiest being in all heavenly dimensions. But what if the great Ineffability's just a prank played on us all? What if it's all just a cover-up for the fact that God just _doesn't know_ everything that's going to happen aeons in advance?"  
Aziraphale found himself speechless. "I can't discuss this. Please, just read what's on that file and let's get on with things."  
Crowley nodded. "Okay, angel. I'll give it a rest. But you know I'm going to take it up with you on another occasion."  
"I know," mumbled Aziraphale.

Crowley cleared his throat loudly, as if to demonstrate that he was now officially changing the subject. Aziraphale only realised this minutes later, though – he'd thought the demon would read the information aloud. But no; the demon's reptile-like eyes flew forth and across the paper, and not one word was uttered in the process.  
The angel sighed disappointedly. He felt horribly shut out, somehow. Hadn't he been by the demon's side from the very beginning of this crazy affair? Hadn't he supported Crowley's every action henceforth? He had. He _knew_ he had. That was why he didn't at all understand his companion's – his friend's, at that – introvert attitude.

He decided to attempt some sort of contact. This had to be dealt with, and he was so curious he might've burst if it hadn't been for the amazing self control he exercised.  
"Crowley?"  
The demon didn't respond. He just kept on reading, ignoring Aziraphale consequently. The angel guessed that he was reading it over and over again – after all, he _had_ been reading for several minutes now, and how much information could one visitation card-shaped document hold, anyway?  
"Crowley."  
Still no reaction. Not a fraction of a response.  
"I say, dear boy, are you there?"  
Aziraphale tried waving his hand in front of the demon's eyes. He didn't even blink. Although, when the angel thought about it, that didn't actually have to mean anything; Crowley didn't do that much normally either.  
But that expression was a pretty good description for Crowley's apathetic state.

The angel decided to use a more confrontational method. He leant forward slightly, carefully, and then pulled the 'document' from Crowley's hands.  
Nothing.

"Crowley, you're scaring me. Please respond. Crowley! Hello! Err, Hastur's coming, better hit the road! Oh my, he's going to kill you good if you don't move quick enough. Crowley! CROWLEY!"  
  
Still, nothing.

Aziraphale started giving up hope. He had absolutely no idea what might've caused this... this zombie behavior in the only demon he could really stand to be around. I was about time to start thinking about a last resort, because honestly, this situation wouldn't hold much longer.  
  
Thinking up a last resort when you've already gone over every way possible in your head is a hard nut to crack. It required massive amounts of intellectual work-out, amounts Aziraphale wasn't used to... using.  
Better late than never, one might say. What does not kill, makes stronger.  
Aziraphale didn't enjoy cheerful terms of speech in the midst of trying to bring back friends from Utter Oblivion.

It took some time for Aziraphale to figure out what he was going to do about this situation. He was used to pondering over the laws of metaphysics along with Crowley, and theological problems too – except the theodicé problem, of course. But this felt like it was out of his league.

He felt that way alot lately.

Suddenly, right out of the blue, he lit up like a match. Physical contact! Of course! That'd wake Crowley up any day of the week. Knowing Crowley, Aziraphale could say for certain that a touch of his angelic hand would jump-start the demon like a brand new sports car.  
Or perhaps a brand new Bentley, 1926 years model.

In retrospect, Aziraphale realised that a good slap in the face or two probably would have sufficed, and served like physical contact in an excellent manner. Strangely enough, it didn't come to mind. What did come to mind, though, was something completely different, and not necessarily obvious.

The angel took a deep breath, trying to get himself together. Naïve as he might seem, he still understood what possible meanings and consequences the act he was about to preform might have had, given another situation, time and place. It bothered him slightly, but he tried not to think about it.  
_Okay_, he thought to himself. _You can do this. Just don't... don't think about it.  
_Thereafter, he told his brain to shut the he-... no, just to _shut up_, leant forward and kissed Crowley on the mouth.


End file.
